How to Save a Life
by Cattleman
Summary: Against all odds, Booker and Elizabeth have escaped Columbia, and started a new life together. However, Booker's guilt over his past continues to fester within his soul. Can Elizabeth help Booker confront his demons? And will she gain the courage to admit her true feelings for him along the way? *Major spoilers, very AU. Rating will more than likely change.*
1. Elizabeth

**Author's note**: **Hello everyone! I'm just some author trying my hand at some Bioshock fanfiction. This is AU; Booker is not related to Elizabeth, just so you know. This first chapter is rather boring, but if it takes off things will only get better. Thank you, and please review/fave!**

Despite being right in the bustling afternoon of Paris, Elizabeth was practically deaf to the surrounding chaos of the metropolis around her. The mixture of the constant clacking of hooves upon the streets, the occasional sputtering of automobiles, and the ever-present voices of the dozens upon dozens of passersby failed utterly to deter the young woman's fine focus, which was directed completely upon the book she held in her hands.

In addition to the text her eyes were locked upon, more books lay at her side in a stack, which sat as firmly upon the stone of the library steps as she was. Elizabeth had taken them from their shelves mere minutes ago, and had immediately set to devouring the contents of each work. Such was her ravenous appetite for literature that the difference in language did nothing to impede her reading.

True, the writings were in French, which the scholarship she had earned from her long years in the tower had given her only a basic understanding of, but that only made it all the more rewarding when she found the fables coming to life before her, in this foreign language which she felt she had not seen enough of in her lifetime.

For from even the tiniest bit of imagery or the minutest example of characterization grew countless branches upon which her lively imagination traveled, and at the end of each branch there was a fantastic world formed from the infinite possibilities the wondrous, yet mysterious literature yielded to her; from each and every book she forged her own tales.

While the stories she conjured were completely different from the stories actually being told in the text, the young woman felt no hesitation in her practice whatsoever, an attitude she held toward most things these recent days. After all, she had already spent the better part of her two decades in imprisonment, and at last those days had gone.

Now there were no more cages; no peering eyes watched her every movement, or followed her with her every step. She felt she could go anywhere she wanted, whenever she wanted, and with Columbia and its dangers so far behind there was nothing that could stop her. It didn't matter to her that only a few months had passed since it had all ended, because it already seemed to her that several idyllic lifetimes had come and gone, and all the gilded darkness of her painful past years had long since faded into nothingness. Her fears were long gone, replaced by the seeds of a new life that she could not wait to experience, and that she already loved.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without Booker, who she awaited now at the foot of the staircase. Realizing that at any moment now he would emerge from the set of doors behind her, Elizabeth quickly returned the book to the stack beside her, and then reached for the small pile as she rose.

As if on cue, the doors opened then, and in their place was Booker, who stood holding a stack of books several times larger than the one Elizabeth gripped, alongside a bespectacled old man in a flannel suit, who Elizabeth recognized as one of the library's clerks.

The man was holding the door open for Booker, whose full arms deprived him of the ability to do so. Booker's face was somewhat reddened and dampened with sweat from the effort of holding the books, all of which were thick with both pages and knowledge that Elizabeth simply could not wait to pore over once she and Booker had returned home.

After all, all of the books were meant for her eyes, and the mixed expression of exhaustion and exasperation that Booker wore as he descended the steps towards her filled her with equal measures of amusement and sympathy. The tower of books he held was so tall that it obstructed his vision, and so Elizabeth watched him carefully, in fear he would fall.

"_Merci, monsieur!_" Elizabeth called to the clerk, who nodded at the young woman before casting a worried look in Booker's direction and gently shutting the door. Booker, meanwhile, took a moment to catch his breath at the foot of the stairs, panting slightly. His rolled-up sleeves showed the straining muscles of his forearms that were supporting the pillar composed of Elizabeth's books.

Elizabeth's eyes lit up at the sight of the plethora of knowledge that Booker carried, and she went to him, eager to express her gratitude for his assistance, "Oh, thank you SO much, Booker! It's not too heavy, is it?"

"Eh, it's a bit heavier, but not too bad," Booker lied, as he shifted slightly on his feet to better support the extra weight he was carrying. He silently hoped that this new bunch of books would sate Elizabeth's thirst for knowledge for longer than a week, which usually was not the case, but regardless he wished to be shut of the task as soon as possible. "Uh, let's go?"

"Indeed, let's!" agreed Elizabeth, and the pair set off down the street. Above them the Eiffel Tower loomed, ever watchful, and ever eager to stand against the slowly setting sun. It was the middle of June, and the heat of summer held sway over the romantic city, where it was wont to ignite passions, or alternately, tempers. In the case of Booker and Elizabeth, these two extremes were demonstrated perfectly between the surly-looking older man and the spirited young woman.

While Booker's mouth was set in a frown, his brow was furrowed, and an air of roguishness was very much about him, Elizabeth looked to be the very picture of grace; her light blue day dress moved fluidly with her lithe body as she walked with Booker, whose plain white shirt and pin striped trousers clashed greatly with her dainty attire.

And as Elizabeth walked there was an occasional skip and hop to her gait. She hummed quietly, but cheerfully, and her full lips were shaped into a smile that was more radiant than the sun in the heavens above. Elizabeth was clearly content, which Booker could not help but comment on.

"Well, you're happy today," he said, a note of amusement clear in his voice. Even with the weight upon his arms, Elizabeth's exuberance took its toll on him.

She gave a melodious laugh in response, and her smile turned into a grin. "Of course I am! How could I not be?" She spun on her heel, clutching her books tight in the crook of her right arm as she gestured to the world around her with her left.

"The sun is shining, the sky is clear, the birds are singing away…" she listed, speaking softly with stars in her blue eyes. "And most importantly, we're here! In Paris!"

"We've been here for almost two months now," Booker pointed out, but he then smirked knowingly. "But let me guess: its magic hasn't ended for you, huh?"

"Precisely!" exclaimed Elizabeth, nodding fervently at Booker. "I _still_ can't believe that we made it here! Every corner of it is simply so breathtakingly beautiful, and there's… oh, there's so much to see!"

At this, Booker chuckled. "You said more or less the same thing the week we got here."

"But it's true! Oh, sometimes I wish I could stay awake forever, just so I could walk every corner of Paris without tiring," she said dreamily, once again glancing around to take the sights of the city in.

"Heh, hell of a wish," Booker mumbled, but Elizabeth did not reply. Her mind was abuzz with thoughts as she took in the sights around her for the umpteenth time since her life here began. Again, they were as new to her as a drink of cold water to a thirsty man, and again she took them in, eager to appreciate them, to love them. Here was the land she had fantasized for so long about, and here she was, the blackness that was Columbia now far behind her and Booker.

The two had talked very rarely about that cage in the sky since they escaped it, and indeed they seldom even thought about all that had transpired there, now that they finally had something resembling a normal life. The many mysteries that still dwelled in the sky would remain there undiscovered forever, for all Booker and Elizabeth cared.

Conversation had ceased between the two, but as Elizabeth walked she gave a sidelong glance at Booker. He stood tall, and the orange sunlight illuminated his green eyes and highlighted his rugged features.

His years certainly showed; his face bore creases and wrinkles, and Elizabeth noted how the frown that he bore so frequently fit him so well, a product of regrets and hardships in the man's life of which Elizabeth had seen phantoms, but never glimpsed the truth of. Indeed, there was much about Booker that she did not know, for even these days he refrained from telling her of his history, which she knew already to be bleak.

While Columbia now lay in the past, Elizabeth's life was not without adventure even in this peace, for there was still Booker; the man who had pulled her from her prison in the sky; the man who had braved fire and water for her sake; the man who had forsaken his debt in favor of her freedom.

She smiled warmly at him, and she was just as oblivious to her doing so as he was. Booker was a hero with painful secrets, and Elizabeth knew that as he had saved her, she would now work to save him, even if he kept his tongue under lock and key like he was always so inclined to do. It would take time, of course, but she had an abundance of that in this new life, at least for now.

Then, his green eyes met her blue ones, and reflexively Elizabeth directed her stare away from him. She turned to look across the street, where she found sudden in interest in watching a group of children frolic about in a park filled with blooming summer flowers, of all shades and hues.

"Something wrong?" Booker asked flatly.

"No," Elizabeth mumbled, and she berated herself for staring. After all, it was an impolite thing to do, and the man certainly deserved more than respect at this point.

"Suit yourself, then, but we're here," Booker said dismissively, and indeed, they had reached their destination; amidst the other handsome brick buildings that towered over the street, their place of residence stood before them. It was a modest apartment building, standing no more than three stories tall, and otherwise unremarkable.

However, it was certainly hospitable, and Elizabeth had long since regarded fact that Columbia had provided them a good deal of wealth as one of the very few benefits the city had brought to them; as it turned out, silver eagles were not worth anything in Paris, but silver and gold definitely was. Pawning all of it had been quite a challenge at first, but the result was a fortune in francs which had seen them through since their arrival to here.

"Not bad, huh? I mean, it's more than I ever had back in New York," Booker said, sighing. "And we wouldn't have it if we hadn't scrounged up all that money in Columbia."

"So, I suppose all the coins I tossed were quite a help, then?" Elizabeth piped up, remembering all the countless times she had supplied Booker with funds. He had certainly proven the efficiency of his reflexes then, as he had somehow never failed to catch a single coin.

"You could say that," Booker conceded. "Uh, open the door for me, would you?"

"Oh, of course," said Elizabeth, pushing the door open and then holding it from closing as Booker stepped through. The two found themselves in the darkened stairwell of the building, which was rather well-kept aside from the smell of aged oak that permeated the air.

While they only had two flights of stairs to ascend, the sight of the steps suddenly reminded Booker of how exhausted he was from his burdening task. His shirt was stained with sweat, and his breathing was labored. Still, without complain he braved the stairs, without a word to Elizabeth.

At the top of the final flight the two finally reached the door of their home, which stood locked securely. Elizabeth turned to Booker as she produced the key from a pocket on her breast, and fit it into the steel lock.

"Well, we're home," she said cheerfully, hoping Booker had not pushed himself too far to do her this favor. "Are you alright?"

Booker's arms were trembling, and his face was rather flushed. He replied with shortened breath. "Well, it's getting heavy right about now..."

Nodding, Elizabeth turned the key and pulled open the door. Booker stumbled past her and into their apartment's living room, the tower of books beginning to quake as the strength of the man holding them began to fail. Booker went to the dining table that sat in the middle of the room, where he set the books down with a great thud.

"Finally! Agh, that bites…" Booker groaned, the repercussions of his struggle now hitting him in full. He winced slightly as he flexed his arms, which Elizabeth guessed felt rather sore at this point.

Frowning in concern, she made a note to herself to refrain from troubling him to assist her with such a task in the near future. She smiled apologetically as she went to him, hoping he wasn't too affronted by the experience. She pulled a chair out from beneath the table, upon which Booker wearily sat.

"I'm sorry Booker. It's rather painful, isn't it?"

In response he chuckled, which somewhat surprised her. "Not really. C'mon, this is nothing compared to what I've dealt with before. I think we both know that."

Elizabeth gave him a knowing look and nodded. He was certainly right; for countless times she had witnessed him take injury in Columbia, from all manners of harm. In fact, she clearly remembered bludgeoning him with a wrench once, but that was a memory she didn't much like recollecting. It had been one of the more unpleasant ones of their chaotic time in that city.

"So, you're alright?" Elizabeth asked, though she knew the answer before he replied; Booker DeWitt was a tough man after all, one who overcame the most difficult of challenges without hesitation.

"I'll be fine. Just let me sit here for a spell," he said, obviously in need of a good rest.

"Absolutely! You've certainly earned that!" Elizabeth said, and she grinned as she looked at the stack of knowledge that lay before her, on the tabletop. "Oh, all these books! It's been _such_ a while since I last read through _Les Misérables_! I've half a mind to just dig into it right this minute. You also brought _Notre-Dame de Paris _out, right? My, I've not read it yet but I've heard it's an outstandingly compelling tragedy! Oh, thank you so much, Booker!"

"Hey, don't mention it. What are friends for, right?" he said, giving Elizabeth a tired smile, and then he stood and walked off towards the door that led to his room, rubbing his shoulder as he went, and completely unaware that he had just struck a chord. "I'm real snuffed… I'm taking a nap. Have fun reading."

"I-I will," she answered, as Booker entered his room, and then shut the door behind him. Elizabeth gazed at the closed door, and then looked around the room. It was brightly lit; a large window was set into the wall opposite the entryway of the apartment, which was not very spacious, but certainly very homely. The window was open to the world of Paris, which was descending into late afternoon.

A heater sat in the corner of the room, untouched on account of it being summer, and a breeze pushed open the flimsy cover of one of the books that sat atop the dining table. Elizabeth was too deep in thought to read, however, and paid it no mind.

Instead, she looked to the corner opposite of the heater, where a simple couch sat beside an end table that bore a jar containing a single red rose. Sighing, Elizabeth walked over to it, and took the rose from its glass home.

She sat down on the couch, absentmindedly twirling the rose between her fingertips. It was somewhat wilted, but its lovely scent still remained, and Elizabeth breathed it in deeply, indulging in it as the thorns on the rose's stem pricked gently at her.

This was the first time since she and Booker had met that he had ever referred to her as a friend. Elizabeth felt honored that a man who had endured so many hardships as him would see her as a friend. When did he begin to see her as a friend, she wondered? Was it after she had saved him from death at the hands of a Handyman at the Finkton Docks? Was it after all those countless bits of money and ammunition had been tossed to him? Was it during Columbia, or after, once the two escaped on _The First Lady_ to Paris?

But then why would he not confide in her? The ghost of guilt haunted him, and it was more obvious to Elizabeth than ever now that he no longer had anyone to fight. There was pain in Booker's emerald eyes; regrets and loneliness that he would speak nothing of to her besides all she already knew, which was the name "Anna".

A light breeze blew in from the open window, and the curtains rose about the room like the wings of angels. Elizabeth blushed as she continued to twirl the rose about, and she thought about the fine man that slept away within the confines of his room, and she wondered if she would ever manage to muster enough courage to tell him her feelings.

"Booker," she whispered to the empty room, though part of her really wished he could hear her. "Do you think we can be more than friends?"


	2. Sundown

**Author's note: Wow, okay, I guess you guys liked it? Awesome. The story will go on, of course! Thank you all for the kind reviews, follows and faves! **

**Lindqvist: It is here, friend. :D**

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**Guest: Thank you! And do not fear. I suppose this note answers your question? **

**TheSilencedVigor: Oh, don't worry, here's your next installment. Will this author's note suffice? :3**

**Sally Fantastic: And here is your second chapter. Hope ya like it! **

**Dreamsong83: Much appreciated! I'll keep writing. **

**escatome: That's fine, thank you for the kind words. :]**

**Armaras: Thank you! You can thank J.R.R. Tolkien's work for instilling the value of detailed writing in me. Indeed, I shall keep it up. **

**The 13 Paged NoteBook: Yes, it is quite fluffy indeed. Glad you like it!**

**Kim Jong-un: Thank you! It shall go on. Also, your penname gave me quite a shock. xD**

**TearfulFriend18: It's real cute, isn't it? Thank you, have a chapter. C:**

**Guest: I'm very glad that you find this story delightful! And yes, I just randomly imagined him carrying her books when I was playing the game and I just HAD to write about it. **

**anon: I shall reveal later on how exactly they found their way out. Thank you very much, and read on if you please!**

**Twisted Cinderella: Haha, indeed! The question is, are her feelings reciprocated? DUN DUN DUN! Thank you. ;)**

**Lone Reaper -068: Yes, them muscles, being put to use that doesn't involve killing something, finally. xD Thank you!**

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**ON WITH THE STORY!**

* * *

The day's light was waning, and the sky above that bore a color as bright blue as a pure ocean hours before had turned a shade of deep purple with the arrival of twilight. Nightfall was not far off, but the city of Paris remained as full as ever with the youthful and the aged alike, all unprepared to retire for the evening; Elizabeth knew they would not until the deep of midnight approached.

The rings of sunlight that lined the sky in the distant horizon cast themselves into Elizabeth's eyes as she gazed upon the lively streets below her from her bedroom window, at which she stood with her delicate hands laid upon the windowsill. There were flecks of gold in the brilliant blue of her eyes, and a gentle breeze that blew through the window brought a pleasant cool to her fair skin.

Across the street stood a bakery that she and Booker had visited several times before, its front illuminated by a nearby lamp post. The portly owner of the shop stood before it with loaves of bread cradled in his arms, offering the fare to any of the passersby who would take some. He did this regularly with his wares at the end of the day, and Elizabeth remembered how pleasantly surprised she had been when she had first witnessed the act.

The bakery door was open, still emitting the golden aroma of freshly-baked pastries that filled the air, and the cheers and thanks of the grateful public merged with the baker's jolly laughter. Elizabeth watched on, reveling in this display of kindness, and the joy in her heart grew with each person who accepted the baker's gift.

"This is magnificent," she whispered, beaming as her heart soared in the grandness of it all, for there was not only freedom in this life; there were also all the simple, yet beautiful little things that she witnessed day after day, such as the kindness of people like the baker, or the pureness of innocent children that ran about in the streets without a care in the world. They were fairly mundane, but to Elizabeth they were far more magical than anything she'd seen before.

It was at times like these that she felt like a little girl again. Once more she felt small in comparison to the great, beautiful world before her, but this time there were neither bars nor jailor to keep her from immersing herself in it, and the ribbon in her hair had long since disappeared, gone to sink into the murky depths of her past.

This very spot right at her bedside and at the great window clothed in curtains of blue had been her perch for each night of the last two months, yet each time, as she watched the night slowly descend, the world seemed to grow just a bit brighter.

But then, she would be reminded that the world was no brighter to Booker, and then there would be a pinprick of uncertainty within her breast. Here was this wonderful new life for both of them, that he had given her and that she enjoyed to the fullest, and yet he seemed no happier these days than when he had braved firefight after firefight in Columbia's maw.

In fact, most of the time he isolated himself within his room, which Elizabeth never, ever set foot in, and in addition to that there was always hesitance in his eyes when she asked him to walk with her in the city. Booker quite obviously preferred the life of a loner even as he shared the same roof with Elizabeth, and she wasn't sure if he would ever open up to her, try as she would to urge him to do so.

She wanted him to tell her everything; about Wounded Knee, about his wife, about "Anna", whoever that was. Part of her objected to this, for he had more than earned his right to keep his secrets locked away, even as they tore at him.

But she did not know if she could bear letting him endure those burdens for the rest of his life. She scoffed. It was repetitive, all of it; she'd worry about him every day, and yet she never had the courage to voice her concern to him. Then after that she'd ponder her feelings for him, those feelings which made her want to avoid the piercing green of his gaze at times.

She found it quite annoying that she did not exactly know how she felt about him. She certainly was not hopelessly in love with him; she'd read enough Shakespeare to know the consequences of premature romance, and in truth she could not imagine a future between them. Neither of them was of the romantic disposition; he was the despondent, broken man that did not enjoy the company of others, whereas she was the freak that had spent most of her life locked away from the world. Those were simple facts.

Yet she could not deny that he was on her mind quite often nowadays, though she did not quite know why. Perhaps it was because he was her savior, and he was the reason for her happiness now; perhaps it was because of the silent, strong way he carried himself, that which he maintained against insurmountable odds; perhaps it was because she found him attractive, despite the many years he had on her. Perhaps it was because he was the first and only person in the world that she could call a friend.

Unbeknownst to her, a blush now tinted her cheeks a rosy red, though she could certainly feel the nagging warmth beneath her skin. Quickly, she expelled the thoughts from her mind, for they made her feel childlike and naïve. There was no doubt that she had taken a liking to Booker DeWitt, but she did not quite fancy the idea of losing her identity and independence in the process of incessant fantasizing.

She stepped back and fell on to her bed, indulging in the hearty tenderness that greeted her skin as the blooming, cloud-like bed sheets sunk beneath her. The blankets glowed an immaculate white by the light of the dusk, and Elizabeth turned as she looked about her darkened room.

Opposite from the window were her three tall bookshelves, upon which a myriad of volumes were stored, and at the side of the door that led out back into the living room, her desk sat with a heap of books upon it. It was the stack that Booker had helped her transport earlier today, and that she had already finished several books of, though she wouldn't be letting him know that any time soon.

She yawned, her youthful body already exhausted despite the fact that night had not even come. A dull headache pestered her, formed from the combination of summer heat and suppressed passion, and the young woman was eager to rest for a bit, so that she may ease her mind.

"These feelings are so… troublesome," she said aloud to herself, smiling slightly as she began to close her eyes. "But I can't very well ignore how I feel about him now, can I?"

She could feel her body and mind cool as peace set in, but as sweet sleep began to darken her world a firm knock sounded from the door, and the voice that followed jolted her awake.

"Elizabeth? Hello?" she heard. It was Booker, and judging by the fact that he sounded quite tired, the man had just awoken from his hours-long doze. Quickly, Elizabeth sat up, all fatigue drained from her body, and she stared at the door that stood before her with wide eyes.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear, she thought, and she went to the door. A slight spark of the heat that had disappeared moments ago returned, for she wondered if Booker had heard her when she had spoken that sentence seconds before. She turned the brass knob of her bedroom door, and as it opened she saw a pair of emeralds glint in the twilight glow, as she had expected.

"Hello Booker," she greeted, as she noted that the man's hair was in even untidier shape than usual, and his breath smelled of tobacco smoke, as did the rest of the living room. Evidently he'd had a post-nap cigarette or two. Inwardly she gave a sigh of relief, for the bitter smell helped chase off any sign of a possible blush.

"Uh, hello," he greeted in turn, and for once there was curiosity in the face that usually bore indifference. "Who were you talking to, just now?"

"I wasn't talking to anybody," Elizabeth said, quicker than she would have liked. She berated herself inwardly; so much for remaining inconspicuous.

"Is that so?" he said, and Elizabeth could see a smirk pulling at the corner of his thin mouth. "So, what? You were talking to yourself?"

"Well… so what if I was?" she replied, somewhat defensively. There wasn't any point in lying to Booker; he would call her out right away, for he was as astute as a hawk (he was not an easy man to be attracted to). She feared that he had heard what she had said, and even worse, that he would pursue her on the subject, but nevertheless she retorted. "It's not as if I have anyone else to talk to."

Booker's perpetual frown returned, and Elizabeth slightly regretted making the comment. She had done it more out of playfulness rather than spite, but to a man of Booker's past it would seem more so the latter of the two.

"I guess you have a point," he said simply, his indifference apparently returned (which Elizabeth did not know whether to be relieved or irritated by). The hypnotic green of his eyes was offset by the sleep that remained in them, and it then dawned upon Elizabeth that Booker's presence gave her the feeling of a man that was generally weary of all things.

Elizabeth opened her mouth then, motivated by some impulse to apologize, as miniscule as the offense was. After all, she had said even worse things to him in the past; terrible things, in comparison. But it was the man's pain that urged him to hide from the world, and not some selfish motive as she had just implied. However, he interrupted her, his voice the very image of nonchalance.

"Anyway, we're out of food, aren't we?"

"Huh?" Elizabeth said, at first confused by the sudden change in the subject, before realizing that he was correct. In their haste to bring her books home earlier, they had forgotten to purchase food for the evening. She did not quite recognize her hunger until now, either. "Oh, we are. Ugh, I can't believe we forgot…"

"I figured. Well, I'm not much for starving," Booker said, and he looked out the window behind Elizabeth, and she turned as well. The sky's deep purple hue and its distant bands of gold were reflected in Elizabeth's eyes once more, and dusk was running its course.

"Eh, it's not late. I'm gonna get food," Booker said, and Elizabeth turned to face him just as he began to make his way to the apartment door. She was surprised; he was almost always reluctant to leave the apartment, yet here he was, volunteering to set out. She wondered, amused, if it was because this time he was hungry.

But of course, she wasn't going to let him go alone. At last, here was an opportunity to spend time with him that did not involve some amount of coaxing or begging, and as he opened the door to depart she ran to him, grinning.

"Well, I'm coming too!" she said, her face bright with her smile. "I doubt you'd be able to find your way home on your own, Mr. DeWitt."

Booker scoffed, at both her emphasis on his surname in order to irk him, as well as her poking fun at the fact that he barely understood a single word of French, and he was utterly unable to speak it. The expression he now wore was unreadable, but it seemed to Elizabeth that it was a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Elizabeth was now smiling at him, in that "You-can't-get-me-off-your-back" kind of way, and to her astonishment, Booker smiled back.

"Heh, I sure as Hell ain't gonna stop you. C'mon," he said, and he stepped out of their home and into the shadowed stairwell, with his hands in his pockets and his usual bored-looking gait. Elizabeth followed closely into the darkness, wondering whether she had actually just seen Booker DeWitt smile.

But in any case she was glad, and now she looked forward to her evening, which she had a feeling would be one of the best in her life. How could it go wrong, with Booker actually willing to go out for a change? Either way, Elizabeth was relieved that he had not heard what she had said behind her closed door, because after all, that was meant for her ears only.

Whether or not she'd ever admit the truth to him was a question for the future to answer, but as they descended the flights of stairs in the pitch blackness, an overwhelming urge compelled her to admit at least one thing to the world-weary man that led the way now. Whether it made a difference to him didn't matter, but she certainly hoped it would.

"Hey, Booker?" she said, and he looked back at her.

"Yeah?"

"I'm… I'm really happy, that you're with me."

"Hm."

**Author's note: MORE TO COME! Please leave a review! **


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